


Payback

by BlueAvenue



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Rope Bondage Non-Consensual Bondage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 09:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15046340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueAvenue/pseuds/BlueAvenue
Summary: Abducted by Tom Demming and held captive in an isolated farmhouse upstate, Kate Beckett discovers her ex-lover harbors a secret darker than she dared imagine.





	1. Breaking & Entering

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel of sorts of "A Deadly Game," the Season Two finale in which Kate dumps Detective Tom Demming just as Castle seemingly reconciles with his ex-wife Gina. I've taken certain liberties with the established Castleverse, then again who among us at AO3 hasn't? This includes Demming not dealing well with rejection. Need I add that Castle is the creation of Andrew Marlowe and the intellectual property of ABC Productions?

In the days following her breakup with Tom Demming, Kate Beckett spent every waking moment in an agony of self-rebuke.  She'd been too clever by half, ending her romance with Tom so she would have no reservations accepting Richard Castle's invitation to join him at his retreat in the Hamptons--only to be hoist on her own petard as she witnessed Castle stroll out of the 12th Precinct arm in arm with his ex-wife Gina.  Javi Esposito cast an I-told-you-so look her way but refrained from sermonizing; that was Lanie Parrish's department.

"Girl, how long did you think Castle would wait for you to commit?" she chided one evening as Kate nursed her second--or was it her third?--glass of Chablis at Lanie's kitchen table.  "The man spends eighteen months following you from one crime scene to the next, risks his ass to save yours on more than one occasion, dedicates a _book_ to you, and it never crossed your mind he was in love?"

Kate reported for duty the next morning with a thundering hangover.  She spent the next eight hours sequestered at her desk, content to let Espo and Ryan do the heavy lifting on the DeSantis case--conferring with the ADA on appropriate charges, taking witness statements by telephone--while she feigned interest in the stack of DD Fives generated in the course of the investigation.  As four PM and the end of her tour neared, Captain Montgomery asked to have a word with her in his office.

"Be grateful Ryan and Esposito are so protective of you," said the captain without preamble.

"Sir?"

"Don't think I haven't noticed how they're covering for you. It's been going on all week. When I confronted them they respected your privacy enough not to give me the messy details.  But they dropped enough hints that I was able to piece it together for myself.  You were playing musical chairs with Castle and Demming, only when the music stopped there you were with your ass on the floor."

Kate felt herself flush.  "Captain, with all due respect--"

"You're about to tell me your personal life is none of my concern.  When it starts to affect your performance on the Job, then it's very much my concern.  I've watched you wander around the squad room like you're trying for a guest shot on _The Walking Dead._ Kate, you're no good to me or anyone else this way.  I'm directing you to take a personal day, maybe the day after too.  Don't set foot in my precinct again until you can show me you've got your head in the game and your shit together."  He paused deliberately.  "I'd rather not put that on paper. Wouldn't look good in your personnel jacket when you write for promotion to sergeant."

And now, lying sleepless and very much alone in her bed at three AM, Kate Beckett was unable to close her eyes without seeing the triumph on Gina Griffin's face or the desolate look in Tom Demming's eyes as she told him they were through.  She buried her face in the pillows, still redolent of Tom's clean masculine scent.  Christ, how had she managed to fuck up so badly?  Rolling onto her side she stared blearily at the spidery blue digits of her bedside alarm.   _What the fuck, my calendar's cleared for the next two days.  No reason not to drink myself into oblivion. In fact it sounds like a good idea._

She arose and padded barefoot toward the door, clad only in the panties and clingy camisole top she'd worn to bed.  As yet unfamiliar with the terrain of her new apartment, rented after her old one had been blown to hell, Kate navigated her way by Braille down the hallway toward the kitchen and the bottle of bourbon stashed in her cupboard.  Crossing the darkened living room her nostrils flared as she caught a whiff of cologne.  "Tom?" she asked incredulously.

A sinewy arm snaked around her throat from behind, her unseen assailant locking his free hand around his wrist as he skillfully applied pressure to her carotids.  The choke hold constricted her windpipe as well, reducing her startled cry to a desperate gurgle. Kate clawed instinctively at her attacker's arm even as he lifted her effortlessly off the floor.  Determined not to go down without a fight she slammed her right heel into his shin.  He grunted in pain but did not relax the choke hold.  Instead he increased pressure until her oxygen-starved brain shut itself down and it was lights out for Kate Beckett.

Detective Tom Demming felt her go limp in his arms. "I suppose I should be glad you haven't forgotten me already," he sneered. Garbed head to toe in black--pullover shirt, parachute pants, leather gloves--he was all but invisible in the gloom.  Knowing he had but a fleeting window of opportunity, he lowered Kate to the floor while snaking police-issue flexcuffs from a side pocket. He swiftly bound her wrists at the small of her back, then lashed her ankles firmly together--just in time, she was already stirring fitfully. Demming removed the night vision goggles that had given him such an unfair advantage over his prey and turned on the lights.  His lips curved into a predatory smile at the sight of his erstwhile girlfriend's long and pliant body.

A groan escaped her lips as she struggled to sit up, only to find she was now bound hand and foot.  She reflexively strained at the flexcuffs, a stupid and futile gesture to coin a phrase.  With a breaking strength in excess of 400 pounds the nylon ties were essentially escape proof.  Looking up, Kate beheld Tom Demming looming over her like a thunderhead.  "Tom, what the fuck," she hissed.

He smirked.  "Nice seeing you too, Kate."

"How the fuck did you get in here?"

"We exchanged keys, or don't you recall that?  You gave me a key to your new apartment, I gave you the key to my heart-- which you proceeded to trash like some junkie burglar."

"Tom..."  As she flailed for words she assessed her situation, which on the whole was not encouraging: half-naked, trussed up with cable ties by her ex and totally helpless.  _Holy shit, how the fuck do I talk my way out of this?_ "I never meant to hurt you.  Please believe that."

"Bullshit.  I've been with a lot of women, Kate.  Not as many notches on my bedpost as Castle, I'll grant you that, but you were the first I had genuine feelings for.  I would have proven that given the chance.  Instead you used me, you treacherous cunt.  I kept you amused while you bided your time, waiting for a shot at that asshole mystery writer.  First you fuck me then you fuck me over.  In a way I can't blame you.  He earns more in a single royalty check than I've earned in my entire police career."

"It was never about the money," she protested feebly, which was more or less the truth.

"Too goddamn bad Castle decided to move on in the meantime.  It's all over Page Six of the  _Daily News,_ how he and his ex-wife are back together.  Your timing sucks, Kate."

She wrenched uselessly at the cuffs cinched cruelly tight around her wrists.  "Is that why you broke into my place and tied me up?  To gloat?"

"I've had fantasies about tying you up since we first met."

"Are you just going to leave me like this?"

"The thought occurred.  An anonymous call to Nine-One-One, uniforms walk in, find you hogtied on the floor...you'd be the talk of every precinct in the city.  But that would be letting you off too easy.  This is the first stage of Operation Payback.  It's been in the planning stages since the weekend.  During a casual phone conversation with Ryan last night, he let slip that Montgomery placed you on what amounts to admin leave, meaning you won't be missed until Friday at the earliest.  I decided to take full advantage of this unexpected stroke of luck.  My intent is to relocate you somewhere secluded, where I have all the time and privacy I need to punish you for being such an unfaithful whore."

Even Kate Beckett's gallant heart shriveled at the realization Demming wasn't merely off the rails, he was psychotic.  "Tom, hear me out," she said urgently. "You're a good man, a decorated cop.  What you're doing now goes against everything you represent, everything you believe in."

"Oh, that's where you're wrong, Kate.  I'm _not_ a good man.  There's a side to me no one knows about except my victims--and they aren't talking.  I made sure of that."

Kate could not repress a shiver of supernal dread.  She moistened her lips, acutely aware of fear's coppery taste on her tongue.  "Oh, God...what are you saying?"

"You'll learn the whole truth about me soon enough.  Before I punish you for betraying me I intend to humiliate you, starting now." Seizing Kate by the shoulders, Demming planted her on her knees before him.  He then brandished a pair of trauma shears, standard issue for paramedics and emergency room nurses.  Kate flinched at the sensation of cold steel on her bare skin as Demming sliced open her camisole, its near weightless fabric falling away to reveal her taut breasts and toned belly.  

"Listen to me," she said.  By now fear had given way to righteous outrage.  "You've already committed enough felonies to lose your shield and your pension.  Take this any farther and I promise you'll spend the rest of your life in the same cellblock upstate as the assholes you put away."

"That presupposes you're alive to testify against me."  With a surprisingly deft touch Demming snipped apart her panties, leaving her completely naked.  He slowly unbuckled his belt, opened the fly of his parachute pants to expose his boxers.  The tent shape forming there made his intent screamingly obvious.  "Right now you're going to suck me off, bitch."

"Eat shit and die," Kate suggested.

"I see you're in need of a little incentive."  Drawing his duty weapon, a SIG Sauer P226, from the holster on his right hip he pressed its muzzle to her temple.  "Knowing how fond Ryan and Espo are of you, I'd hate for them to see your brain matter spread all over the carpet."

Kate had already performed a primitive calculus and concluded her life was forfeit.  For that reason she almost dared him to pull the trigger but reconsidered.  At the moment the operative word was  _survival._ If submitting to a wanton act of oral rape was the price to be paid for buying herself more time, so be it.  Even so, her first glimpse of pre-cum beading at the very tip of Demming's ramrod-stiff cock caused her to turn away in revulsion.

Demming smirked.  "If you relax and accept the inevitable, you might just enjoy this.  I know I will."

She had given Demming blowjobs before of course, but never on her knees and certainly not at gunpoint with hands cuffed behind her.  No sooner had Kate parted her lips for him than he lodged the engorged head of his cock at the back of her throat.  She gagged violently.  "Sucking cock isn't a passive act, Kate," Demming chided.  "Use that talented tongue of yours and make me cum!"  

Tears of shame and impotent rage scalded her eyes as she obediently circled his thick and veiny shaft with her tongue.  Unable to breathe with a mouthful of cock Kate had to strain for oxygen through her nostrils.  Demming thrust away, tireless as a machine, indifferent to her muted anguished cries.  She knew from experience his stamina was the stuff of legend and wondered how long she could endure before passing out.  _Where the fuck is Castle now that I really need him?_

Demming sensed Kate was at the limits of her endurance.  He withdrew his cock long enough for her to inhale raggedly before plunging himself deep inside her once more.  Each fluid thrust tainted her mouth with the briny taste of semen.  When at last Demmingcame with a pleasurable groan, Kate had no choice but to swallow his hot liquid load lest it clot at the back of her throat; it was either that or choke.  He withdrew his still menacing erection ever so slowly, and then added insult to injury by pumping a final spurt of milky cum into Kate's mouth.  This time she could not swallow in time and the overflow oozed from her lips.

"Demming, I hope you burn in fucking Hell for this," she said in a venomous whisper.

"Bitch, you'll learn to keep your mouth shut unless my cock is in it."  Wadding Kate's ruined panties in his fist he tamped them deep in her mouth. He then unfurled a black bandanna from a side pocket and folded in thirds lengthwise to fashion a cleave gag.  Demming knotted the bandanna between her teeth before tying it off at the nape of her neck.  Bound and gagged on her knees, a captive in her own home, Kate Beckett impaled Demming with a hateful glare laser-like in its intensity. He casually holstered both his weapons, produced his cellphone and rang a number stored in his contacts.  "It's me.  Bring the van around to the service door in exactly ten minutes.  I'll buzz you into the building."

Kate's distraught moan was faintly audible through her gag.   _Fuck, he has an accomplice who's as insane as he is!_ Only now did the precise depth of the shit she was in become apparent to her.      

"You're about to meet a man named Jerry Tyson," Demming informed her.  "You know him better as 3XK.  That's right, the one who murdered those three women earlier this year.  He's partial to blondes, as you're well aware, but once I explained that my newest target was the woman who inspired Richard Castle to create Nikki Heat he was eager to lend a hand.  We work different sides of the street but we have a mutual interest in preying on beautiful women." He reached out to stroke her abundant chestnut hair, a gesture that heartbreakingly reminded her of the Tom Demming she'd once known and loved. "And now you know my most closely guarded secret, Kate. Sadly you must take it to your unmarked grave with you."       

 

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

      

 


	2. Aggravated Kidnapping

Kate Beckett supposed Jerry Tyson's boyishly handsome features and roguish smile would have appealed to her had she been ten years younger. At age 32 she was more attracted to the rough-hewn good looks of someone like Tom Demming. Of course that was before Tom stole into her apartment under cover of darkness, overpowered and rendered her unconscious with a choke hold, then bound her hand and foot with flexcuffs.  For an encore he'd stripped her naked and forced her to suck him off with a loaded pistol to her head.  The stale taste of his cum lay heavy on her tongue as she sat on her sectional sofa being roped and tied by Jerry Tyson, alias serial killer 3XK.

"Handcuffs and single-use restraints come in handy on occasion," he told Demming, "but I consider them more a stopgap.  I've always found rope bondage far more sensual and esthetically pleasing.  In fact, the Japanese consider it an art form.  Their word for it is _Kinbaku,_ though some in the West prefer the more generic _Shibari._ Either way, by the time I'm done with her Detective Beckett will be a true work of art."

"That I'd like to see," Demming grinned.

Kate cursed both men through the bandanna gag knotted deep in her mouth. A webwork of taut braided rope crisscrossed her upper torso above and below her bare breasts, yoking her arms behind her back and anchoring her bound wrists against her spine.  Adding insult to injury, an invasive crotch rope cleaved her labia.  She looked and felt like a macramé project.  But 3XK was not yet done with her.  He tied Kate's trim ankles together, then her graceful legs above and below the knees, hitching the ropes nice and snug before finishing with a set of textbook knots.  Rising to his feet, Tyson circled behind the captive policewoman to take advantage of her abject helplessness by cupping her breasts in his hands.

"Nice rack, Detective Beckett," he murmured into her ear.  He stroked then lazily circled her nipples with the pads of both thumbs.  Kate strained valiantly though in vain against her unyielding bonds.  _Christ, if only I could get at the goddamn knots..._ but no, Tyson had cunningly tied them beyond reach of her scrabbling fingers.  The friction of the crotch rope against her tender inner flesh, which she would have found pleasurable under other circumstances, served only to ramp up her misery quotient.  

"Plenty of time to entertain yourself with Beckett at the farmhouse," Demming reminded Tyson.  "It'll be daybreak soon.  Let's get her packaged for shipment."

"On it."  Tyson scuttled away.

Kate sat motionless on the sofa, conscious only of her hammering heart. The otherwise innocuous word _farmhouse_ evoked images of loneliness and isolation that instilled suffocating fear in her.  She tensed at the sounds of movement overhead, then stole a glance at the antique clock--one of the few items salvaged from her old place--on the bookshelf.  It was twenty after four, meaning her upstairs neighbor Irv Koppleman, owner of the kosher deli at 29th and Madison, was up at his usual predawn hour. Kate's eyes flicked to the earthenware bowl resting atop the coffee table before her.  Without hesitation she braced her heels against the edge of the table and tipped it over, launching the bowl in a shallow arc.  It shattered on the floor.

Within seconds Kate was prone on the sofa, pinned there by Demming's knee across the back of her neck.  "You cunt," he growled, snaking a six-foot length of rope from Tyson's duffel.  "That little stunt's gonna cost you."  He found the midpoint of the rope and doubled it.  Kate heard voices through the ceiling, male and female, Irv and Rebecca Koppleman doubtless asking each other what that noise downstairs was.  She mewled frantically through her gag even as Demming threaded the rope between her ankles and lashed them to her wrists in an uncompromising hogtie.

Tyson reappeared carrying a backboard identical to those used by paramedics to transport victims with suspected spinal injuries.  "Got her all lassoed for me," he commented.  "Nice work, Tex."

"I've had plenty of practice," Demming said.  "What the fuck you do, steal that off an ambulance?"   

"Available off the shelf from any medical supply house in the Tri-state area," answered Tyson.  Working in concert with Demming he lifted Kate bodily off the floor and placed her face down on the backboard.  Trussed like a lamb for slaughter she was powerless to resist as straps were cinched tight across her shoulders, waist and thighs.  "Now about that gag..."

"What about it?"

"Good work, Tom, don't get me wrong, but in light of how long we'll be on the road I'd prefer something foolproof."  3XK dangled before Kate's disbelieving eyes an accessory she had only glimpsed on the websites of sex-toy purveyors: a leather panel gag complete with silicon dildo measuring nearly four inches in length.  Kneeling alongside Kate he first undid the bandanna, then hooked a forefinger in her mouth to extract her now sodden panties.    

"Asshole, you and Demming are both dead men walking," she croaked.  The panties and cleave gag had leeched the moisture from her mouth and tongue, making speech difficult.  "NYPD will hunt you both down and kill you.  They'll line up to piss on your graves, all thirty-four thousand of them."

"Enjoy your little acts of defiance while you still can, Beckett," Tyson said with the faintest of smiles.  He forced the dildo inside her mouth and buckled it in place, thereby ensuring her silence.  Once again Kate was unable to control her gag reflex.  The sensation of the dildo wedged at the back of her throat reminded her unpleasantly of sucking Tom's cock--which, she supposed, was the whole point.

"Detective Beckett?" Irv Koppleman's concerned voice was followed by a tentative rap on her door.  Irv appreciated having a cop for a downstairs neighbor.  Defying the stereotype of the apathetic New Yorker he had obviously  taken it upon himself to investigate the untoward noises from her apartment.  "Kate, everything all right in there?"   

"HULMMPHEE!"  Kate's desperate outcry was smothered by the gag. She thrashed hopelessly in her bonds.

"Fuck," Demming grumbled.  He'd banked on a forty-eight hour window before anyone raised an alarm.  Then again, once they reached the farmhouse it would no longer matter.  "We'll have to take her out the back door to the fire stairs."

"That was the plan all along," Tyson reminded him.  Using the convenient handholds he and Demming picked up the backboard, Kate Beckett and all, carrying it from her living room into the kitchen and through the fire exit.  They descended three flights of  stairs to the ground floor.  A nondescript utility van waited in the dank alley behind the building.  Demming eyed the small though sinewy man in polo shirt and jeans standing expectantly at the open side door.  His thin-lipped mouth contorted in a wolfish smile as he caught sight of Kate tied up and strapped down on the backboard.

"The fuck," Demming said under his breath.

"Even bound and gagged Kate Beckett is a handful," Tyson explained.  "I thought it best to recruit some hired muscle." 

"Friend of yours?"

"More like a disciple.  I seem to have developed a following within the Incel movement."

"The what?"

"A small but militant subculture most people have never heard of.  Give it a few years.  They're men who believe the game is rigged against them when it comes to developing relationships with women.  They feel like they're on the outside looking in and they deeply resent it."

_Meaning they can't even approach a woman for a date,_ thought Demming, _let alone get laid._ However he refrained from smartass comments as he helped Tyson load Kate inside the van.  The taciturn "disciple" climbed in after her and closed the door.  Demming heard the thump of the lock slamming home. 

"Tom, this is as far as you go, Tyson said, not unkindly.  "You have to stay behind and play the role of grieving ex-boyfriend.  Not to worry, we'll look after Beckett until you're able to join us."

"How can I be sure you won't fuck her in the meantime?"

"Have you forgotten our gentlemen's agreement?  She's your exclusive fuck toy until you decide otherwise.  I'll be content with the leftovers.  Just remember, I claim the privilege of ending her life.  I have a very inventive demise in store for Detective Beckett."

"I get to watch her die," Demming said.

"Oh, that goes without saying."  The two men shook on it.  Tyson joined his disciple in the van.  Demming stood watching as they drove slowly down the alley, pausing before making a left turn onto Lexington.  A sector car flashed by, then another, both running with emergency lights but no sirens, doubtless responding to a 911 call from the upstairs neighbor.  The van completed its turn and headed in the opposite direction.  Demming tugged a creased and sweat-stained Yankees cap from a side pocket, pulling the brim low to conceal his face from the surveillance cameras up and down 28th.  He emerged from the alley and turned east, quickening his pace until his rangy form disappeared into the predawn gloom.  

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

   

     

 

 

    


	3. False Imprisonment

Demming visited the roadside market on State Highway 17 two to three times a year.  His routine never varied: in and out, pay cash only for his purchases, politely but firmly rebuff the proprietor's forlorn attempts to engage him in conversation.  Let the man think he was simply another boorish city dweller averse to mixing with the locals.  The nature of his hobby--for that is genuinely how he thought of it--made anonymity essential.

Even so, the man behind the counter greeted him like a long-lost friend when he stepped through the door with its jangling bell.  Demming supposed that was typical of folks born and reared here in upstate New York.  They were generally open and trusting, though they exhibited a provincial tendency to not merely gossip but pry into the affairs of others.  One more reason to keep them safely at arm's length.  Navigating the narrow aisles of the store he was secretly relieved when the owner resumed his lively exchange with the only other customer, a porcine man in Carhartt duck bib overalls.  The topic was elk hunting, which brought a smile to Demming's lips.  He too was a hunter, even if his prey was of an entirely different sort.

Sliced turkey breast, raisin bran (Jerry would have to settle for Kellogg's, not the Post brand cereal he preferred for reasons that eluded Demming) bottled water, orange juice...he tossed the last items on his list, shaving gel and disposable razors, in the cart and steered it toward the checkout.  Nearing the register he glanced at a stack of plastic trays containing the morning editions of the local fishwrap: _Utica Observer-Dispatch_ and _Syracuse Post-Standard._ Why did all small-town newspapers have hyphenated names?  Kate's Beckett's portrait was splashed all over Page One of both dead-trees.  Not only that, her face glowed from the flat screen television above the counter.  The chyron streaming below her image read NYPD ADMITS NO NEW LEADS IN CASE OF MISSING DETECTIVE.  KATE BECKETT, 32, INSPIRED NIKKI HEAT CHARACTER IN RICHARD CASTLE BESTSELLER.   

"You're from the city, ain'cha?" demanded the porcine man.  Up close he was unshaven and smelled unpleasantly of gasoline and tobacco.  He planted a thick forefinger on Kate's picture.  "This looks to be a big deal down there."

Demming tugged the brim of his Yankees cap so low it grazed the bridge of his nose, shadowing even more of his face.  "Fellas, I'm just here to buy groceries.  If the New York cops can't keep track of their own people, that's no concern of mine."

"She's famous, though," persisted the local.  "Been dating some mystery writer."

_No,_ Demming mused, _she simply wanted to fuck him._ "Well, then, if he's that good at solving mysteries maybe he can help NYPD find her."

The proprietor manually entered prices on his register.  Either he didn't trust UPC scanners or couldn't afford one.  "That comes to twenty-nine dollars and forty-seven cents," he declared.  Demming handed him a twenty and a ten.  "Want me to bag this for you?  Never mind, I see you brought your own."

"Hey, saving the planet one tree at a time."  Demming loaded his purchases in a canvas tote, assiduously avoiding eye contact while the owner counted out his change.  "Thank you kindly."

On his way out the door Demming heard the porcine man mutter "stuck-up asshole."  He ignored it and continued across the gravel lot to the van.  Once inside he sorted through his selection of classical music CDs, settling on Smetana's stirring tone poem "The Moldau."  Listening to the Czech composers always relaxed him.  He cranked the engine and pulled out onto the highway.  What passed for the rush hour hereabouts had come and gone.  Demming passed an occasional passenger car or pickup on the return trip; other than that he had the highway to himself.

The road snaked through the Adirondack foothills.  Demming took the curves at reduced speed, recalling how every winter some luckless motorist lost control and plowed through a guardrail before careening down an embankment into the woods below.  Even in good weather like this one had to negotiate the curves with extreme care.  He did not relax entirely until the highway levelled out on a plateau.  Passing Barskdale Road he braked while scanning for the familiar mailbox, DEMMING barely visible on its pitted surface.  He turned right and followed the gravel drive wending its way through what had once been an apple orchard.  Years of neglect had reduced it to a tangle of gnarled dying trees, which suited Demming just fine because it screened his great-grandfather's farmhouse from the highway.  And there it was now, oddly endearing with its rusting tin roof, tottering chimney and sun-bleached clapboard siding.  He gave silent thanks for mom and dad's resolve to keep the property in the family, refusing to sell no matter how much money the real estate developers offered.  In doing so they had unwittingly provided him the perfect site to pursue his hobby in complete privacy.

Demming parked behind the farmhouse.  After locking up he crossed the sparse lawn to the back porch and entered through a screen door hanging from its hinges more out of habit than anything else.  He paused in the doorway, listening for the drone of the Coleman generator that powered the ancient Amana fridge and what few lights he and Tyson needed.  Satisfied that all was well, he put away the groceries before leaving the kitchen for the back bedroom.  As always he disregarded the pervasive smell of mold, decay and bird shit.  Jerry Tyson waited on him outside the bedroom door.

"Everything under control?" Demming asked.

"She's all staked out for you," said 3XK with a knowing smile.  "What's happening in New York?  I trust you followed our script?"

"Hey, Leonardo DiCaprio better watch out.  I put on the performance of a lifetime.  When I insisted on joining the task force--"

"They formed a task force to find Beckett?"

"They're having a shit hemorrhage at One Police.  My lieutenant took me aside and said I had too much of a personal involvement to work her case.  He ordered me to take a few personal days to get my head together.  And here I am."  Demming paused.  "I don't see your disciple."

"You've heard it said two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead?  Lucas, that was his name by the way, outlived his usefulness to me."

"Spare me the details."  Demming tossed him the van keys.  "It's past noon, why don't you drive into town for a bite to eat?  There's a bar and grill called Smokey's on Fulton Street.  They serve a nice steak sandwich." 

"Get lost until suppertime, in other words."  

"Exactly."

Tyson threw him a mock salute.  "Enjoy."

"Thanks, I intend to."  Demming waited until he heard the crunch of tires on gravel as Tyson drove off.  Only then did he open the bedroom door.

_Holy fuck, she's gorgeous.  And she's mine to do with as I please all afternoon._ He felt a delicious stirring in his groin at the sight of Kate Beckett splayed naked and helpless across an old but solid iron bedstead, wrists and ankles roped tautly to its frame.  Lifting her head from the rancid-smelling mattress she whimpered piteously through the silicon ball gag strapped between her teeth.  A sheen of perspiration covered her skin from head to toe, mute testament to the furious energy she'd expended trying to free herself.

"Beckett, I trust you've had time to reflect on the folly of playing both ends against the middle," said Demming.  He sat on a ladderback chair and removed his shoes and socks.  "Castle isn't saving your ass this time, neither are Ryan and Espo.  You are so fucked, and that's no figure of speech."

"HNNNNGH!"  Kate strained uselessly at the unforgiving ropes anchoring her to the bedstead, making Demming even harder for her.  He shed his pullover followed by his jeans.  Finally he skimmed off his briefs to unveil a raging erection.  Kate stared in rapt horror at his quivering shaft, overwhelmed by the crushing hopelessness of her plight.  She was about to be raped by her demented ex.  Demming joined her on the bed, crouching between her thighs, fingers straying to her pussy lips.  He worked one digit, then another inside her.  Kate ached up off the bed at his surprisingly dexterous touch.  Demming chose to interpret the moan that escaped her gag as one of ecstacy.  He withdrew his fingers to savor her tang.

"This is where I had my way with Marissa," continued Demming.  "And Lindsey, Antoinette and the rest.  I buried them all on my great-grandad's back forty.  You'll be joining them soon, you conniving cunt.  But that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves first."  With no warning he entered Kate in one swift, savage thrust, her entire body convulsing in response.  "I'm gonna fuck you hot, hard and deep all afternoon!"     

"NNNGH!"  Kate willed herself to relax, felt her inner muscles ripple of their own accord as he sheathed his hard, veiny length deep within her exposed and vulnerable pussy.  She found herself moving in tandem with him, however unwillingly, with each piston-like stroke of his body into hers.            

"Why, Beckett," chuckled Demming, even as he thrust tirelessly away, "you're all hot and wet for me.  Is it possible you _enjoy_ being tied up and fucked?  What a revelation.  I'm only sorry it took me this long to find out.  Lucky we have the rest of the weekend to make up for lost time." 

   

     

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Criminal Sexual Conduct

They came for Kate at daybreak. Demming freed her from the bedstead she'd spent another torturous night roped spread-eagle on while Tyson stood by with police issue Taser at the ready. Kate stretched her cramped and aching limbs, prompting Tyson to activate the targeting laser and train it on a point just below her breasts. She hastily laced fingers behind her head, keening fearfully through her ball gag at the prospect of fifty thousand volts cycling through her body yet again.  Over the five days of her captivity (or maybe six, she couldn't be sure) she had been tasered multiple times for disobedience.  This included failure to address Tyson or Demming as "Master" during those brief respites when she was not gagged.  By now the mere sight of the Taser reduced her to cringing servility.  Though the tag team of psychopaths had not broken Kate Beckett's body they had succeeded in breaking her spirit.

Demming unbuckled her ball gag.  "On your feet, Beckett," he ordered.  "Time to hit the shower.  You want to be all fresh and sweet-smelling for us, don't you?"

Her lips curved into a tremulous smile.  "Of course I do, Master."

"Then move your ass."

"Yes, Master."  The Kate Beckett of old--an independent, take-charge woman, kickass New York City cop--would never have recognized the obedient bondage slave she had become. 

Absent modern plumbing her captors had rigged a shower tent with a five-gallon bag of solar heated water behind the farmhouse, affording Kate an opportunity to cleanse herself and even shampoo her hair in semi-privacy.  To discourage any thought of escape Tyson had strewn glass shards around the tent, forcing her to enter and exit via a duckboard so as not to lacerate her bare feet.  Emerging from the shower Kate relinquished the meager towel she'd been given to blot herself dry.  She stood naked and shivering in the chill morning air, hands clasped submissively behind her as she waited to be tied up again.  Rope burns scored her wrists and ankles like stigmata.      

"Looks like you have your morning routine down, Beckett," Demming said approvingly.  He bound her hands with a six-foot length of jute rope, finishing with a merit-badge-worthy knot.  Tyson then placed a hand between Kate's shoulder blades and shoved her in the direction of the house.  Once inside the kitchen he steered her toward an old but sturdy ladderback chair alongside the table.  She sat down, reflexively draping her arms over the chairback.  Demming used another length of rope to make her wrists fast to the rungs connecting the rear legs.  Tyson in the meantime lashed her ankles to the front legs, snugging up the ropes to eliminate any slack.

Demming held an earthenware mug to her lips. "Here, guaranteed to clean the sludge out of your veins." The coffee was unsweetened, much stronger than Kate was used to, but she drank it anyway. In between sips of the bitter brew Tyson spoon fed her raisin bran.

"I have good news for you, Beckett," Tyson said.  "Tom has decided it's time he returned to New York."

"Master, why is that good news?" she asked warily.

"That means you and I will finally have quality time together."

Kate felt her stomach heave.  For two days now Tyson had been dropping hints that it was time for Demming to "share the wealth."  His idea of quality time doubtless corresponded with Demming's in that it involved tying her down on the bedframe as a prelude to fucking her senseless.

"I heard him riding you real hard last night," Tyson continued.  "So I'm prepared to give you the rest of the morning and all afternoon to recharge."

"That is very generous of you, Master," Kate responded.

"First though you must demonstrate you've learned your proper role as a slave.  I've scheduled your, ah _orals_ for after breakfast.  Earn a passing grade and I'll let you rest up for tonight."

"As my Master pleases," acknowledged Detective Kate Beckett, loathing herself even as the words left her lips.

 

 

Sunlight fanned through gaps in the roof of the ancient barn, gilding Kate's skin as she knelt with her bare back against one of the stout wooden posts supporting the hayloft.  All was quiet save for a clatter of wings as the barn swallows nesting overhead came and went.  Head bowed, eyes downcast, she waited in wincing silence while Tyson pulled a bundle of rope from a side pocket of his cargo pants.   

"Master, there's no need to tie me up first," she protested meekly.  "It would please me to give you a blowjob. I enjoy having my Master's cock in my mouth."

"Your enjoyment doesn't enter into it.  The ropes are a useful reminder of who holds the whip hand here.  Let's review, Beckett.  Who am I?"

"My Master."

"And what is your sole purpose as my slave?"

"Why, to serve and obey you without question, Master."

"And pleasure me whenever I demand it.  You forgot that part."  Tyson snaked ropes around Kate's waist, then her wrists and ankles, hitching and knotting until she was trussed inescapably tight to the post.  He paced a slow circle around her, savoring the sight of a naked Kate Beckett kneeling expectantly before him.  Disheveled though she was--her hair a tawny tangle, her sleek flesh marred by scrapes and bruises--he still found her arrestingly beautiful.

Kate remained perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe.  She heard the clink of a belt buckle, followed by the rustle of fabric.  Raising her eyes she beheld Tyson's fully erect cock.  He was as heroically endowed as Demming.  Kate leaned forward as far as her bonds allowed, moist pink tongue darting in and out of her mouth.  Her pathetic eagerness amused Tyson and he edged forward until her lips closed around the velvety head of his shaft.  She flicked her tongue across the very tip, sampling her Master's precum.

"Oh, fuck, yeah," Tyson breathed.  He eased himself further into her mouth.  Kate felt the head of his cock resting on her tongue.  She probed delicately for the sensitive cleft on the underside of his shaft, recalling it was Demming's sweet spot and she supposed Castle's as well.  It occurred to Kate that she hadn't thought of Rick in days, which surprised and saddened her in equal measure.  With no warning Tyson pushed all the way home, causing her to gag.  He realized his mistake and withdrew just enough to keep her from choking.  She was startled to realize this was more consideration than Tom had shown.   

"No need to rush this, Beckett," he said roughly.  "We have the luxury of time and privacy."  He sensed she was ready for him but this time paced himself.  In appreciation Kate lavished attention on his head of his cock, sucking gently but insistently, while making urgent little noises to signal she wanted more of him.  Tyson penetrated deeper, groaning in ecstacy as she teased and explored his length with her exquisite tongue.  Gluey semen leaked from his cock to coat the roof of her mouth.  Kate experienced a moment of panic as it pooled at the back of her throat, but gamely swallowed the salty-sweet ooze and found herself thirsting for more.      

She did not have to wait long.  His cock twitched in her mouth and he unleashed a sustained jet of hot cum.  Kate gulped it down dutifully.  Even then she was not sated.  As Tyson withdrew his erection, she curled her tongue around a glistening golden thread of semen trailing from the tip of his cock and swallowed that too.  

"Did I pass my orals, Master?" she asked, unable to repress a shy grin.

"You aced 'em.  And to prove I'm a man of my word, you can have the rest of the day off."

Kate squirmed unhappily in her bondage.  "Does Master plan to untie me first?"

"I'm not sure I care for your tone, Beckett.  It borders on sarcasm.  In answer to your question I have to make a grocery run into town, so you'll have to wait for lunchtime.  Until then here's something to remember me by."  Tyson produced the black leather penis gag he'd used to silence her the morning of her abduction.

"You _promised,_ " Kate said plaintively.

"I promised you time to yourself, Beckett.  And now that I think about it, being on your knees for the next few hours is excellent discipline for you."

Kate Beckett of old, steely and dauntless in the face of adversity, belatedly reasserted herself.  "In that case go fuck yourself, Tyson."  It was her last utterance before 3XK wedged the silicon dildo in her mouth and strapped the gag in place.  In a final sadistic flourish, he threaded a crotch rope deep between her pussy lips and cinched it firmly around her hips.

"You seem to have regressed," he said, sounding genuinely mournful.  "As punishment for your insolence, I'm leaving you here until dusk.  No way in hell you're getting out of those ropes, so don't waste your energy in pointless struggle.  Better you save it for tonight.  I plan on an intimate dinner for two, and for dessert I'm going to tie you down and fuck you, Detective Beckett."

"NNNGH!" Kate grunted.  She watched despairingly as Tyson sauntered toward the door.  He paused there and turned to face her.

"On a side note, we've seen the last of my erstwhile accomplice Tom Demming.  While he was entertaining himself with you last night, I went out to his van and bled most of the fluid from the master brake cylinder.  When he hits the first of those downhill curves south and east of here he'll discover he no longer has brakes.  With him out of the picture, you become my personal fuck toy.  Your continued survival depends on keeping _me_ entertained.  I want you to think about that while I'm gone."  With that Tyson walked out, leaving Kate bound and gagged and very much alone in the shadowy gloom. 

 

 

 

    

      

 

      

 

 

 

  

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know...entirely too long to update my sordid little bondage-and-blowjob tale, for which I humbly apologize. The fact is Real Life has a way of intruding on fantasy life. I hope you find it worth the extended wait. Should there be sufficient interest I will try and push ahead with Chapter 5.


End file.
